Triage
by Tijuana Pirate
Summary: Chaos's first appearance and the aftermath. OGC, Vin.Tifa. Tifa's pov.


**Author's notes**: I never played Dirge of Cerberus but I've read the script. The thing that left the strongest impression on me was the idea of what Chaos _actually is_. In OGC, Chaos was always the demon that interested me the most. Dirge just amplified that.

I dedicate this to Darknightdestiny because she seems to be mildly fascinated by Vincent's monsters. This doesn't come even _close_ to the kind of insights she manages with them ... but it's the thought that counts, eh?

Mostly, I just like the themes in this. And the vaguest hint of something approaching Tifa.Aeris. It's my favourite sub-theme in this story. Tifa is so deliciously _fucked_.

Oh, and Cloud. I always like Cloud.

* * *

Triage

Things like this don't happen in real life. The sound's like fabric being slowly torn apart except that it's _Vincent_ – Vincent who's sliding out of himself into … into…

The wings stretch high and up, like a bat's. They flap and blood flies off of them – is it _his_?

The others were never like this. The others were human fabrications. They weren't much worse than the monsters we faced on the road, products of human vanity. But this… this…

She'd called him Chaos.

He screams above us and my knees give out underneath me, my hands flying to cover my ears. I hear Yuffie say something high and painful in her native language and Cid swears, stumbling back. Cloud is the only one who doesn't crumble at the inhuman sound. He stagers and then takes two steps in front of me, levelling his sword.

I can almost imagine long fingers curling along my shoulder. I almost can. But that hand is gone now and she's not really here. My hope and conscience have taken on a new type of personification.

_Tifa, it's okay_.

I shake my head, my vision blurring, because it _isn't_. That thing above us screams again and I think that I'm going to pass out from the sound.

There's a noise like thunder. I want it to be raining. I want it run down me, wash me away.

I can hear the men screaming now. I can barely make out the torn face of the earth a few dozen meters ahead of me. Had he …? It looks like an earthquake.

I can hear their answering fire and it _roars_.

How long does it take? I'm not sure. Cloud's the only one of us who can stand to look up the entire time. None of us are strong enough for this yet. He's a force of nature. I can feel the oppressive _weight_ of him pressing down on us.

Is he _glorifying_ in it? Vincent never … he never …

_Be strong, Tifa_.

Please, stop it. I can't actually hear you. I want this to stop!

I open my eyes when the quiet starts. None of us are breathing quite right. I look up and place him, an ugly grey scar in the sky. Those wings flap once, twice. He turns his eyes in our direction and I hear the leather of Cloud's gloves tighten.

All at once I hear a long, mournful cry. It's animalistic in its intensity. Far-reaching, it echoes inside of me and I double further forward, my hand digging into the dirt in front of me. A tear drips down my cheek and I know - I _know_ - that it isn't mine.

Did he … can I …?

There's a sound of whistling wind then and I look up just in time to see that figure sweeping forward. For a moment I'm sure that it's sweeping _at_ _us_ and I feel Cloud tense to readiness.

And then it passes over the tops of our heads. I whip around just in time to catch his form disappear in the evening sky. Cloud breathes out a sigh of not-quite relief and I hear him replace his sword to its spot on his back.

"Tifa?" he asks me quietly. I swallow and scan the skyline.

There's a solid hand on my shoulder now.

"It's alright, Tifa. He'll… he'll be alright."

Yuffie's retching and Cid is swearing in a continuous running stream, not pausing for breath. He fumbles for a cigarette and lights one, his litany muddled now around the stick.

"Tifa?" Cloud asks me again. This time I get to my feet numbly, not quite swaying. It takes me a moment before I can look at Cloud. I ignore the smell that I can already feel rising in the air. It's a mixture of burnt earth and something viciously metallic. I swallow.

"We can't go far from here," I say and Cloud nods. He looks behind us, towards the horizon that Vincent has disappeared into.

"There was a stand of trees a mile or so back. We'll camp there for the night. When he's," Cloud stumbles over the phrase, his confidence wavering for a moment. "When he's well," he continues, "he'll know that it's the most logical place for us to be."

I nod numbly but inside I'm so exhausted that I feel like crying. The voice says something soothing but I ignore it. I don't want to hear it or its promises.

Cloud pats my shoulder before walking over to check on Yuffie. Cid replaces him by my side, the scent of his cigarette mixing in with the other smells and making me a bit nauseous.

He's quiet for a minute, watching where Vincent has disappeared to. Then, he takes a long drag and exhales.

"Fuckin' Hell," he mutters around the stick.

All I can do is nod.

_.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o._

Before monsters invaded this area, I imagine that there must've been logging here once-upon-a-time. The stand is unnaturally thin. None of the trees around us look to be more than twenty years old.

Cloud's a bit away from camp, serving as look-out. Cid and Yuffie are both sleeping but I'm just sitting, starring at the embers of our fire. All at once I can't stand it and I get up. I look at my two companions and then the direction that Cloud has disappeared to. I debate quietly for a moment.

He'll understand, I think. I roll up my sleeping bag, leaving them a sign that I'm at least … lucid is a good way of putting it.

There's very little alive in these young woods, I think as I walk. I can tell that there must be a few birds, at least, but the disturbance you normally get from the small ground-living animals just isn't here. I wonder when our world became so dangerous.

I don't know how far I walk until I come to the gully. There must've been a river here once, I imagine. Maybe melt-water diverts off of the mountains in spring. I walk along the once-riverbed, avoiding lost stones and discarded roots.

All at once I start. It's that same smell – something burnt and a metallic tang that I'd know anywhere. I tense, orienting myself.

North. Deeper into the woods.

It's probably stupid and irrational but I walk up that riverbed, honing in on the thing that should frighten me. After another thirty feet or so, the riverbed ends in a dam of uprooted trees. I can see where the water normally diverts around the obstacle. I scan the area, squinting in the dark.

I let out a breath.

My feet crunch against the dead leaves softly. He raises his head and then it slides back down. When I get closer, my throat closes and I press my lips together.

I hadn't seen him get hit before he transformed but, gods, it makes sense. That's the metallic smell in the air. Vincent's bleeding.

I walk forward slowly, cautiously. Death Penalty is lying beside him and his right hand is cupped over the trigger still. I don't want to startle him.

His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-closed. I wonder if there is a double-trauma there. I've never asked him but somehow … gods, the sound of it. It must _hurt_.

A wounded dear once wandered close to our town. I was with my father when he found it. He made himself small, trying to talk to it calmly. I do the same for Vincent, getting down to my haunches when I'm about five feet away.

"Vincent?" I ask very, very quietly.

He starts and for a moment I'm starring down Death Penalty's barrel. I freeze completely, no breath escaping my mouth. All at once it tumbles back to its place on the ground, the barrel making a metallic sound when it hits some small rock.

I see Vincent swallow.

"Tifa," he says my name like it means something, the words partially distorted by dryness. I nod and inch forward until I'm beside him.

He has propped himself up against an old rounded stone, carried down from the mountains by some unknown torrent. His left shoulder is touching the rock and that's where he's laying his head, instinctively curving around the wound in his side that I can see as an ugly dark stain. His right hand is still holding Death Penalty.

"Vincent," I say quietly, "I need to look at the wound in your side."

He nods against the stone and I half prod, half lift him to get his back against its supporting weight. I hesitate a moment before touching his hand, urging his fingers to uncurl from around Death Penalty's trigger. Delicately, I move the weapon away from us.

I swallow, looking at him there. I've gotten used to injuries. It's just that…

Once again, I can almost feel slender finger wrapping around my shoulder. If in my imagination she says something to me, I suppress the words.

I'm sorry Aeris but I can't handle more than one ghost right now.

I've never realized how sadistically complicated Vincent's outfit is. The cape is easy enough to unclasp and pull away. I have to resist my urge to study the line of his chin, the shape of his jaw because, really, this is not the time for childhood curiosities.

The shirt is actually held together by a series of buckles and snaps. The fabric is oddly light against my fingers. They don't quite tremble at their task.

He cringes when I lift the piece of clothing away. The reason is immediately clear. His skin is angry and red. Vincent might heal unusually fast but this …

In a word, this is bad.

I squint and lean forward, the tips of my middle and index finger resting against his stomach. Am I imagining it or …?

"Vincent, what did you do?" I ask. It looks like this was a bad shrapnel wound at first but…

His voice is gravely and I feel as though he must be drifting in and out of sleep.

"Metal poisons," he murmurs from where he's resting. I have to swallow then because I can follow his uncomfortable logic.

Vincent normally carries a utility knife with him. My gods, I don't even want to think about it.

He's right though. When it's this close to the organs, leaving shrapnel inside a wound is suicide.

_Still_.

I push those thoughts away and reach around to the small utility pack I keep at my hip. I have a needle and medical thread in there. The cure materia I keep in my bangle.

I thread my needle and then swallow roughly. I have to keep my roving eyes on their task. The scars that I can see regular and repeating on his chest, half hidden from the blood from his wound … they're too personal and I have no right to look.

Feeling a bit guilty about it, I tear a piece of Vincent's cloak off and use it to mop up some of the excess blood. I sit the rag on my lap then, knowing that I'll need it again and I'd rather pretend that it's at least somewhat sanitary. I try to ignore the wetness that I can feel on my legs now.

He doesn't flinch when my needle parts through the skin. Maybe he's too numb to it by now. I work in silence, moving my little needle in and out. I try to make my stitches as close together as possible. I feel an irrational sense of guilt about the crocked scar that this will leave on his side.

I hear Vincent exhale but it's mostly my mind attaching a sound to the bit of breath that stirs the hair on my forehead. I frown as I work. It takes him a moment to speak.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, his voice barely making it to my ears. I shake my head.

"You don't need to apologize, Vincent," I say firmly because it's true. He's quiet long enough that I begin to wonder if he has passed into sleep. Faintly, he speaks again.

"I saw you," he murmurs.

My fingers still against his side and I can feel the blood beneath my finger nails. I swallow.

I know that he must be at least a bit delirious. He'd never admit something like _that_ to me otherwise. He never tells us anything about them. I don't want to know that when _they_ look at me some part of Vincent can see me as well. The honesty constricts my throat.

"You were afraid," he adds and I have to swallow to keep something from escaping. I shake my head. My voice almost matches his in texture.

"I wasn't afraid, Vincent." I say roughly. "It hurt… but I wasn't afraid."

I look up briefly. Vincent isn't facing me. His head has turned off towards the right. I smile a bit sadly. I'm almost sure that's he's gone for good this time but then I hear his quiet reply.

"Then I am sorry that I hurt you, Tifa," he replies. My hands come back to my lap, blood ignored for the time being.

"Vincent," I say with a force that I hadn't realized still lived inside of me. "Look at me," I say.

There's a part of him that's still most comfortable taking orders, I know. Somehow I imagine that that's what makes him turn his head.

His eyes are partially clouded but I know that they can at least _see_ me.

"You didn't do anything wrong," I say firmly. He watches me until finally nodding and laying back down against the rock.

I watch him for a moment, trying to orient myself. His breathing is shallow but steady. He's finally allowed himself to pass out into sleep.

I rub the back of my hand against my forehead before leaning forward again. The wound is almost half closed. When it's done I'll bind it using strips of cloth from his cape and I'll finish encouraging it to heal with cure materia.

I glance at the stars overhead. Gods willing, this will be done by morning.

_.o.o.o.o.o.o.o._

The others found me sleeping beside him some time later. Cloud's from Nibel like me and so almost by association he's a half-decent tracker. I remember that I cast the spell when I could see the first hint of sunlight on the horizon but I don't remember when I managed to coax Vincent back into his shirt.

Apparently I'd laid his cape over his shoulders like a blanket. They found me sleeping half on the ground, half propped against his good thigh.

Cloud looked relieved, Cid amused, and Yuffie made cooing noises at us.

I don't know how much Vincent remembers from the night before. Perhaps one day I'll have the courage to ask him.

I do remember though that Cloud, Cid, and Yuffie weren't the first people I saw that morning. I looked up, not over, and saw Vincent looking down at me.

Without the cloak in place, it was much easier to see the small half-smile that touched his mouth.

* * *


End file.
